


The earthly courtship of the divine Lady Fell

by doomed_spectacles



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Apologies to Shakespeare, Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Banter, Courtship, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Episode: s01e03 Hard Times, F/F, F/M, Flirting, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Original Character(s), References to Shakespeare, Regency Romance, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:07:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21941884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomed_spectacles/pseuds/doomed_spectacles
Summary: Aziraphale is tasked with blessing the marriage of young lady who is being courted by a rich gentleman. When Crowley arrives and crashes a dinner party, he endangers the match and forces Aziraphale to realize he's had a suitor of his own for over 200 years.A canon-compliant(ish) Regency-style romance during the gap between 1793 and 1862.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 231
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love, Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	The earthly courtship of the divine Lady Fell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OneofWebs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneofWebs/gifts).



> For OneofWebs for the GO holiday exchange with the request for Lady Aziraphale in the Regency period. I hope it's okay! <3 I haven't written anything this saucy in a good long while, and never in this time period.
> 
> NOTE: Aziraphale switches to a female body midway but maintains male pronouns, except when referred to by others or described.
> 
> NOTE2: More specific notes are at the end, but keep in mind that in Shakespeare's writings, the word "will" had several meanings, including as a euphemism for lust or desire (along with his own name).

[L’entracte, Paris - 1793]

"Do you know what it said? Crowley? It said - it said-" Aziraphale swayed, sloshing his wine dangerously close to the brim of his glass. He was perched on a stool, somehow still looking prim despite the fact that he wore the clothes of the man who had tried to cut off his head a few hours earlier.

"What?" Crowley tried to focus but he was currently seeing one and a half to two Aziraphales, depending on how hard he squinted. He tried to take a drink but discovered his glass was empty, as was the bottle in front of him. And the other bottle in front of him.

"The note, Crowley!"

"Yeah, yeah, the rude note." Crowley reached in front of Aziraphale but only found another empty bottle. He gave up and turned back to the sloshed angel next to him. "What did it say? The note."

"Do you know what it said, Crowley? Listen, _listen_ -" Aziraphale's eyes widened and he pointed very emphatically in Crowley's general direction.

"What did it say, angel?"

"Listen, Crowley. Listen-"

"Mmmmlisssssteningangel, whazzit sssay?" Crowley leaned his elbow on the bar and put his head in his hand, staring at Aziraphale trying desperately to tell him something he thought was very funny and failing very badly at it.

Aziraphale pulled himself up straight as a board. He put on an official-looking frown and spoke with a deep voice that was supposed to be imitating Gabriel but to drunken ears ended up just sounding like a sexy Aziraphale. " _Miracles are only to be used in service of the Divine Plan or to will the-_ " Aziraphale swayed and tried to look sternly at Crowley but ended up cross-eyed. 

" _The enemy_ \- the- that's you, Crowley," he said, and smashed their glasses together in an enthusiastic but inappropriate toast. " _To will the enemy into a position to be defeated by the righteous actions of Heaven._ That's what it said." Aziraphale blew air out of his pursed lips, making an exasperated sound.

"Mmmm," Crowley said. He miracled another bottle of wine between them.

"So, angel," he said, dropping his voice low and leaning closer so that their shoulders brushed. The air around them grew warmer by a few degrees as the silk and velvet lace layers of their clothes brushed against each other. Crowley smirked and pointed his head down so Aziraphale could get a full view of his eyes over his glasses. His next words oozed out of his mouth, dripping with suggestion. "What sort of _position_ will you put me?"

Aziraphale sputtered, his mouth opening and closing several times as he worked all the possible responses to that through his inebriated brain. Expressions flitted across his face one by one: shock, delight, back to shock, a demure delight, downright deviousness. He settled on an unconvincing version of surprise. His eyes twinkled and the corners of his mouth kept raising in a smile before he managed to set his lips somewhere between a pout and a frown.

" _Fiend_ ," he said, tossing the word out with a suggestive roll of his shoulder that undercut any viciousness the reply was meant to convey.

Crowley grinned, flashing lots of teeth. "This _fiend_ kept that pretty little halo of yours from being separated from the rest of you," he said with a wink, only belatedly seeming to realize it wouldn't be seen under his glasses.

Aziraphale pursed his lips again. He grabbed the bottle in between them and filled Crowley's drink to the brim. He gave the demon a sideways glance and muttered _fiend_ again under his breath. Only this time it sounded more like _thank you_.

* * *

[SoHo, London - 1800]

"So? What do you think?" Aziraphale's entire being radiated with anticipation. He was proud of his new little corner of the world and eager to show it off. Crowley didn't point out the sin. He just smiled a little private smile that seemed as genuine as Aziraphale supposed possible for a demon.

"I think Hatchard'll be out of business in a month. No way he'll be able to compete with what you've got setup here - he's a goner," Crowley said. He continued to circle around the bookshop picking up random volumes and trailing his fingers over the gleaming wood surfaces. "Very nice, angel," he said. 

If the bookshop was a skeleton, Aziraphale stood in its rib cage, a beating heart radiating with love. Somehow this place already felt like an extension of the angel himself.

"Oh, really?" Aziraphale demurred. "Thank you. I really don't think Master Hatchard has anything to worry about, dear man that he is." He wrung his hands. "In fact, I've been thinking..."

Crowley came to a stop in a corner of the room. It was a bare corner that hadn't yet been filled with shelves or any other furniture. "Mmmm? What've you been thinking?" Crowley asked. He stood in the bare corner, fingers to his lips.

"I've been thinking of specializing. You know, Master Hatchard can have the mainstream crowd," Aziraphale said, and his voice made it clear what he thought of the connotations of catering to the _mainstream crowd_. "But I've collected a fair number of a certain kind of book, you see."

Crowley made an agreeing noise. The spot where he stood caught the afternoon sun coming in through the windows. He'd removed his hat and overcoat, leaving him in shirtsleeves over a dark red waistcoat. Crowley snapped his fingers and a comfortable-looking couch appeared in the corner. Aziraphale looked over in surprise. "Ngk?" Crowley said, apparently meaning _is this okay?_

Aziraphale furrowed his brow for a moment, then waved his hand. A soft blanket appeared over the back of the couch. Crowley sat.

"So, specializing, eh? Certain kind of book?"

"Yes, books of prophecy. I'm quite interested in how humans have tried to muddle their way through figuring out the Great Plan via prophecy and the like. You see, when I was speaking with Nostrodamus..." Aziraphale kept talking while he miracled a chair across from Crowley, who'd sprawled across the new couch. Aziraphale was still speaking a few hours later when a customer knocked on the door. "Oh! We're closed," he called out, waving his hand to lock the door and shutter the windows.

Crowley raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. He smiled behind the wine glass that had appeared in his hand as soon as Aziraphale had started in on Dante. He listened to tales of prophecies and prophets, false and otherwise, until the sun came up over SoHo.

* * *

[Haymarket Theatre, London - July, 1821]

"Well that needs some work," Crowley said as the house lights came up.

"Shush, Crowley."

"What, you didn't think it was good, did you?"

"No, of course not, but here comes Mr. Morris. He owns the theatre," Aziraphale said, plastering on a smile and waving to the well-dressed man moving towards them. He nudged Crowley, who turned his frown into an expression that wasn't exactly a frown anymore but made it extremely obvious he was only present at the behest of his companion.

"Mr. Fell, how lovely to see you as always," the man said, casting a sideways glance at Crowley. "And what did you think of The Rivals?"

"Mr. Morris, how nice to see you as well. I must admit I can't vouch for the accuracy of the dialogue, having never been pursued in such a way myself, but I've no doubt the players did their very best," Aziraphale replied, sidestepping the question of the play's quality altogether.

"I'm so glad you were able to attend our grand reopening. Mr. Nash has put his heart and soul into the project." The director gestured around the interior of the theatre. The now-empty house was lit by a dozen or so gaslights, which made the intricate pink and gold details on the interior appear warm and showed off the delicate woodwork on the rails.

Aziraphale murmured appreciatively.

"If you'd like, the cast is having a small gathering nearby, and there are a few people I'm sure would love to be introduced ... ?"

"Thank you ever so much for the invitation, but my associate and I have a previous engagement."

"We do?" Crowley asked, leaning close to Aziraphale's ear.

"We do," he said through gritted teeth.

"A shame, but perhaps next time." The man looked genuinely put out to have been rejected. He turned to go, but stopped. "Oh, and Mr. Fell, do be sure to come see Mr. Aldridge take on the Prince of Denmark, he'll be lovely I'm sure."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Hamlet is next on the calendar, then?"

The gentleman sighed. "Yes. Audiences do not seem to tire of the tragedy no matter how many times it's staged. And our patron insists on it." His lips formed a thin line that barely qualified as a smile.

Aziraphale glanced sideways at Crowley, who was intently studying the mural on the ceiling and avoiding his eyes. "Your patron?"

"Indeed. What he wills, he pays for. And what he wills, apparently, is Hamlet. It's simply miraculous that such a bloody tale sells so well. I'd rather prefer not to stage it, but the accountants insist, and alas in this business there is no remedy against consumption of the purse, save giving the audience what they want. Good day, gentleman."

" _Miraculous_ , indeed," Aziraphale said, giving Crowley a satisfied look. Crowley tried to hide a smile as they walked out of the Haymarket and into a nearby pub.

After two bottles of wine, chips, a bottle of scotch, more chips, and a second bottle of scotch, Aziraphale said, "I've been meaning to ask you something."

Crowley lifted his head to peer out from below the rim of his glasses, forgetting that he could see just as well with them as without, or that he could remove them. "Ehhh?"

"Have you ever? Well- that is..." Aziraphale dithered, suddenly interested in his glass.

"Spit it out, angel."

"Fine. Have you ever been a lady?" Aziraphale met his eyes, looking defiant and slightly drunk.

Crowley snorted. "You've seen me as one. Many times."

"Yes, but that was-"

"What?"

Aziraphale squirmed. "That was back when the human rituals - not to mention the layers of clothing involved - were quite a bit different than today. More economics and simple yards of cloth situated in one way or another."

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "You like the rituals, though. Or reading about them, anyway. And the layers."

"I suppose so."

They drank in silence for a moment before Crowley asked, "What brought this on, anyway?"

Aziraphale sighed. "It's an assignment. A blessing of sorts, but a peculiar one. There's a lady in Surrey, Lady Hawthorne. She's no family left, save her ancient dowager aunt. She's to have children and they're to be happy, well-adjusted, that sort of thing."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Crowley made a thoughtful face that made him look like he'd smelled something strange. "Let me get this straight, you are to encourage a young lady to have children out of wedlock? Isn't that a bit, I dunno, cruel? Considering how worked up the humans get about that sort of thing? Not that your people give a second thought to impregnating teenagers..."

"No! She's betrothed to a Mr. Blue, or Green, or something, I don't remember. She's engaged and I'm simply to," Aziraphale pursed his lips, unintentionally making a kissing face, "help things along."

Crowley's eyebrows raised all the way above his glasses at that. He grinned. "Sounds an awful lot like tempting, angel. Sure you haven't accidentally taken my job?"

"No! It's not that, Crowley," Aziraphale insisted loudly. The other patrons at the bar gave them curious stares, which both ignored. "She's already betrothed and I just need to, well, help the process so that she has happy, successful children. That's all." He gulped down the rest of his scotch and grimaced.

Crowley leaned forward and smirked, clearly amused. He lowered his voice to a pitch he clearly thought sounded sexy. "Call it what you like angel, you're encouraging two humans to-"

"It's _love_ , Crowley! It's meant to be love," Aziraphale practically shouted. "So? Do you have any advice for me? If I were to ... become a lady in order to gain her trust? Or are you just going to tease?" He pouted a bit more than usual.

Crowley's smirk hadn't left his face and didn't for the rest of the evening. He said, his voice low and oily, "Advice for Lady Fell? Oh no, I wouldn't dare presume."

* * *

[Highbury Manor - September, 1821]

The second course had just been served when the butler announced the arrival of a Mr. Crowley.

"Ah, Mr. Crowley, you've missed all of the droll conversation and none of the salacious bits because we haven't gotten to them yet," Lady Hawthorne said, welcoming Crowley as if he'd been expected.

"Well then, I've arrived just in time to stir up some trouble," Crowley said, taking his miraculously-available place at the table. 

He bowed to the four ladies and nodded to the two gentlemen seated in the dining room in evening dress. He took a place next to Miss Stewart, a plain young girl with brown hair and unremarkable features. She smiled kindly at him. The other guests acknowledged Crowley with nods and polite smiles except for Lady Fell, who glowered at the new arrival as he seated himself directly across the table. Crowley winked, exaggerating the gesture enough that it could be seen under his darkened spectacles. Lady Fell maintained a sour face. Her white curls just barely peaked out of a light blue bonnet and she wore a simple white gown with a blue sash directly under her bust.

"We were just discussing the dreary business of courtship," said Lady Warner, an energetic redhead and cousin to the hostess. "And how eager my cousin is to be done with the entire process."

The hostess, Lady Hawthorne, was a stern, confident young woman with dark hair and an air of sophistication that made her seem older than she really was. She wore a purple dress with lace frills and short poufed sleeves. "Indeed. Courting, how dreadful it is. Better to find your match and hasten to marry." She looked around the table expecting agreement and, for the most part, finding it.

Mr. White, her betrothed, nodded. "Agreed," he said, through his bushy mustache that was flecked with the remnants of the dinner's first course. "Best to get the whole thing over with and seal the deal." He was seated to Lady Hawthorne's right. To her left sat Mr. Jennings, a shy young man who was dressed somewhat plainer than the other guests. 

Crowley glanced around the table and cleared his throat. "I would assert, Lady Hawthorne, that perhaps your disenchantment with courtship lies not with the institution itself but rather the execution."

A murmur went round the table.

"What are you saying, Mr. Crowley?" Mr. White sat up in his chair and took an indignant tone. His mustache quivered. Crowley paid him no mind and looked directly at the lady in question.

"I'm saying, Lady Hawthorne, that perhaps you have not been _properly_ courted."

The murmur turned into startled gasps at the boldness of such a statement while all parties involved sat at the same table.

"I daresay, Mr. Crowley!" Mr. White said, angrily pounding his fist on the table. "If you are daring to impugn my courtship of Lady Hawthorne, then-" Crowley turned to him and raised an eyebrow over his dark glasses.

"Then?" he countered.

"Now then, Mr. Crowley," Lady Hawthorne said, commanding the attention back from the men. "Explain yourself. On what grounds do you say such things about matters which you know not?"

Crowley smiled and though no one could see his eyes, there was plenty of mischief on his face. "You suggested dissatisfaction with the state of romance. I intend to prove that the misery she feels is due to an insufficient suitor, not the practice of courtship itself."

Lady Warner spoke up. "Surely we can test your theory, Mr. Crowley? If there is an ideal courtship, then can we not compare it to the experiences of my cousin? Thus prove in an objective manner that the experiences of the lady in courtship are paramount to its success or failure and that my cousin's specific romance may be evaluated fairly based on such parameters."

"I object to this insult! I cannot believe any of us are taking this dandy in dark glasses seriously," Mr. White huffed. He looked to the young man seated on the other side of Lady Hawthorne for support, but Mr. Jennings looked away.

"But surely if your courtship of my cousin was satisfactory, you'd have nothing to fear?" Ms. Warner asked, with a challenge in her eyes.

"Of course," Mr. White huffed.

Lady Warner nodded and turned to Crowley, an unexpected ally in his verbal warfare. Crowley leaned forward and addressed Lady Hawthorne. "My lady, if you would, please describe the three most important elements of your courtship by Mr. White."

She considered the question, studiously not looking her suitor in the eyes. Mr. Jennings moved his hand towards hers, not touching it. "You don't have to do this," he said quietly. She gave him a small smile in thanks, then addressed the table in general, Crowley in particular.

"Number one," she said. Crowley held up a finger. "The theatre. Mr. White has kindly attended a number of plays with me on his arm, despite his well-known disaffection for the arts." Mr. White looked pleased at this, but it was evident that he was pleased only with himself. "Second. Mr. White has kindly listened to me speak on a number of subjects with which he has little interest." Her brow was furrowed.

"Such as?" Lady Warner prompted.

"Such as ... books. And ... the importance of literature in a child's upbringing." She hesitated, searching the room for answers and finding none. She looked at Mr. Jennings, who regarded her with sympathy and kindness, then to Mr. White who frowned with his entire face. "And the third. He's here, isn't he? He has visited me on numerous occasions, including this one."

Mr. White nodded, clearly satisfied with the answer. "There, you see, Mr. Crowley! I demand that you retract your insult and acknowledge there has been no fault to my courtship of Lady Hawthorne."

"I don't think so," Crowley said with glee. He grinned. "Allow me to demonstrate."

"What is the point of this, Crowley?" Aziraphale hissed.

Lady Warner answered. "Lady Fell, I'm quite interested in where Mr. Crowley is going with his assertion, as I too am unconvinced that courtship is satisfactory, especially to the so-called fairer sex." She glanced covertly at Miss Stewart. "Please continue."

Lady Fell pursed her lips and gave Crowley a withering look that he completely ignored.

"Very well," Crowley said, launching into his argument. "Take your first element, the theatre. A proper suitor would not only accompany you to such events, my lady, but would inquire as to your favorite play. You have one, of course?" 

Lady Hawthorne nodded, wide-eyed. Mr. White frowned. He clearly had no idea what her favorite play could possibly be. 

"A proper suitor would take it upon himself, using whatever means he had at his disposal, and I'm sure Mr. White has considerable means," Crowley said, raising his glass to the gentleman, who preened at the mention of his wealth, "to ensure that his lady's play never left the stage. That his lady's play was performed every season. Season after season. To the last syllable of recorded time."

Lady Hawthorne and Miss Stewart's eyes went round with surprise. Lady Warner smiled with satisfaction at the consternation on Mr. White's face. No one noticed how pale Lady Fell had become.

Crowley continued. "Your second element, my lady. Your interests. I find fault here as well." He paused for dramatic effect and swept his gaze around the room. Aziraphale had composed himself and looked stern by the time Crowley looked his way. 

"Your suitor should not only feign interest in your books, my lady. Your suitor should take your interest into his heart until it is lodged there as firmly as you yourself are. Your suitor must listen to your interest in a book and not only nod appropriately, not only be content to hear you speak about it. Your suitor, should he be true, would find joy in listening to you speak. You must agree that this is the barest minimum required of a man so much in love that he wishes your hand."

Lady Hawthorne had frozen in place as Crowley spoke. She refused to look at Mr. White and instead searched for friendly eyes around the table. She found sympathy in Mr. Jennings, whose calm eyes and kind face grounded her.

Across the table, Lady Fell had also frozen but her eyes never left Crowley's face.

"And finally, my lady. You say that presence at this table alone qualifies as courtship. I reject this assertion outright." 

Lady Warner snorted, clearly amused by the theatrics threatening her cousin's engagement. Crowley went on. 

"I assert instead, my lady, that a suitor's presence must only be counted as a romantic act if he makes himself known both regularly in the course of events but also in times of great need. Were there a time when you found yourself desperate for help, my lady, that is when your suitor must appear and his presence may only _then_ be proof of his devotion. Do you swear to those gathered here that if you found yourself in dire straights, your betrothed would appear?" 

Lady Hawthorne paled. She stared at Crowley and looked absolutely lost. The confident hostess had disappeared and revealed instead a scared and confused twenty year old girl.

Crowley looked around the table at the shifting eyes and hesitant fidgeting of the dinner guests before staring directly at Aziraphale. "If you found yourself _imprisoned_ ," he said, drawing out each word for maximum effect, "would your suitor appear to release you?"

No one spoke. Aziraphale and Crowley faced off, staring at each other in a room full of humans that both momentarily forgot existed. Aziraphale's face showed genuine shock and an emotion he wasn't prepared to name.

The tense silence was broken by an outburst of indignant noises from Mr. White. Everyone at the table ignored him.

"But if I may object and advocate for caution," Aziraphale said.

"I'd expect nothing less from you," Crowley replied. "Go on, be the devil's advocate." He wagged his eyebrows suggestively, clearly amused.

"I certainly will not!"

"I think the courtship Mr. Crowley described sounds divine," Miss Stewart said quietly, avoiding everyone's eyes and blushing furiously. "Don't you, Lady Fell? Lady Warner?" Miss Stewart lifted her eyes to meet Lady Warner's and she received a warm smile in return.

"No!" Aziraphale objected. "Well, yes, that is- Courtship as Mr. Crowley described it, well, if one may call something like that courtship," he stammered. "It may well be divine but only if the intentions of the suitor are, well, _good_." He raised his eyebrows at Crowley, who raised his own back. "You must admit, ladies, that there are those who would tempt you with divine acts such as those described. Snakes in the grass who may have less than honorable intentions."

The women at the table nodded while the men looked uncomfortable.

"So how does one know, then?" Miss Stewart asked, "if one's suitor's intentions are true? How does one court without risk?"

"You don't," Crowley said. All eyes turned back to him. "There is only one way for the pursued to know if the devotion of the pursuer is true." He spoke directly to Aziraphale while seeming to address the room. "Take the risk. For the suitor also risks greatly in the asking."

Another silence fell over the table. _My lot do not send rude notes._ Crowley's words came back to him and Aziraphale felt tears prick at his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something but the words died on his lips. The feelings on Crowley's face were raw, all the usual layers of bravado removed.

"Excuse me, I need fresh air," Aziraphale said, and fled the room.

He had only been gone for about fifteen minutes when Crowley joined him on the balcony. They looked over the undulating shadows of the grounds in the pale moonlight. Neither spoke for a long time. The silence between them was charged, then became familiar the longer it went on. An angel in a white dress and a demon in a dark suit looked out over the earth spread out before them.

"Well the blessing's off, then. You saw to that."

Crowley made a noise that sounded vaguely like an apology. "Yeahhhhh, sorry about that. You can blame me in the report."

"I intend to," Aziraphale huffed. 

"Although," Crowley said, pacing in a circle and carefully avoiding the train on Aziraphale's dress, "maybe not."

"What? You saw them! They're miserable and you pointed it out for all to see." Aziraphale's face was full of pity for the girl who's dinner Crowley had ruined. "There's no way she'll happily have children with him now, and no wonder."

"Mmmm. I have an idea." Crowley stroked his chin. "I'm off the clock right now, but Hell never minds a bit of extra-curricular tempting. Might keep them off my back for a while, actually."

"Crowley! You'll do no such thing!"

Crowley threw up his hands. "Not her! Jennings! The boy's as besotted as a ... well, something that's besotted. He likes her, is what I'm saying."

"Jennings? You can't mean-"

"Why not? You said she was to have children, you didn't say who it had to be with." Crowley raised his eyebrows in a face that Aziraphale recognized as his _got-you_ face. He rolled his eyes, as he had every time he'd ever seen Crowley's _got-you_ face. "Come on, it's perfect! I do a tempting, you get to finish the blessing and everybody's happy."

Aziraphale considered, pouting while he thought. "I suppose..."

"Come on, angel, let me do this one. I ruined the party, let me fix it." Crowley gently put his hand on Aziraphale's bare back. They both shivered at the skin contact. 

After a few heartbeats, Aziraphale nodded. He looked away, searching the faint light of what stars he could see for fortitude. "Why did you say those things, Crowley?"

"She deserves better than that prig."

"Obviously. That's not what I meant."

"I know."

The silence between them charged again and Aziraphale felt the heat of Crowley's hand on the back of his neck. "Was it true? What you said? Or-"

"You know it was," Crowley said, his voice a low desperate growl. "Every word was true."

"Crowley, it's too- I-"

He was interrupted by Crowley's mouth claiming his. Crowley moved his hand into Aziraphale's hair and grasped his head, holding him in place. Aziraphale melted against him, bringing his own hands to form fists in Crowley's velvet lapels. Their bodies pressed against each other as their mouths moved in rhythm, seeking a balance between lips and teeth and tongues. When they broke apart, both breathed heavily.

They stayed with their faces close together, living in each other's air, counting heartbeats, until voices from inside broke the spell. Aziraphale turned first, leaving the shelter of the garden overlook and walking back to the door.

"There's another reason I dropped by the manor tonight."

Aziraphale's hand paused on the door-frame. Crowley had followed and stood close enough behind him that he could feel the demon's breath on his exposed neck. He could feel the ghost of Crowley's fingers on his skin. "Oh?" He didn't dare turn to face him.

"I had to see what dress you'd choose for the occasion."

Aziraphale kept his voice steady. "And?"

Crowley leaned in, his lips hovering just above Aziraphale's ear. " _Forswear my sight, for I never saw true beauty till this night_." He leaned forward and placed his hand over Aziraphale's on the door. He pulled it open and bowed, every bit the gentleman waving a lady through the doorway.

Aziraphale took a breath and stepped through, returning to the party with a flush on his cheeks that had nothing to do with the chill of the night air.

When they returned, the ladies and gentlemen had retired to a drawing room. Lady Hawthorne and Mr. White were absent. Jennings paced in front of the fire, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Miss Stewart and Lady Warner sat together on a couch and conversed quietly.

"Easy on the lad, Crowley," Aziraphale said, giving him a pointed look before stepping away to join the ladies. Crowley took Jennings aside and Lady Fell was the only one in the room to notice the snap of his fingers.

An hour later, Lady Hawthorne returned, looking tired and pale. She bade them all goodnight and left the room as quickly as she'd entered. Crowley practically pushed Jennings out the door after her and stretched himself out in front of it so that no one could follow and interrupt.

"Do you even have a room?" Aziraphale asked Crowley as they left the drawing room and walked down the ornately decorated hall of the manor. 

Crowley made a series of faces and made a series of noises that weren't quite a _no_. "I'll figure something out," he said, and looked away, clearly wishing he'd said something else.

"I'm sure you _will_ ," Aziraphale said, cagey. "Is that-?" He looked over his shoulder at two figures retreating down the hall. 

Lady Warner and Miss Stewart had also left the drawing room and were walking with their heads close together, hands clasped. They whispered to one another. Lady Warner giggled and Miss Stewart shushed her with a hand to her lips, which only increased the amount of giggling. Miss Stewart opened the door to her room and drew Lady Warner inside with a shy smile. Lady Warner looked both ways down the hall before disappearing into Miss Stewart's room. Over Aziraphale's shoulder, Crowley gave her an approving smile. 

"Goodnight, Lady Fell. May your rest be uninterrupted by thoughts of snakes seeking to tempt you with their wiles."

"Goodnight, snake seeking to tempt me with his wiles," Aziraphale said. He entered his own room, not seeing the grin on Crowley's face but never doubting it had appeared.

\--

Crowley knocked twice before entering the antechamber to Aziraphale's room. "Angel?" 

"In here! But-" Aziraphale stood at a low table in front of a large dressing mirror. He thought about retrieving his dress from the floor, but gave up when the demon approached. The light in the bedroom was low and it made Crowley's dark suit and shoulder-length hair appear even more dramatically handsome. Dark glasses did little to hide the look of naked longing on Crowley's face.

Crowley circled around Aziraphale and settled just behind his left shoulder. "Really, angel, you know full corsets have been out of fashion for a while now," he tutted. He ghosted his fingers over the seam at the top of Aziraphale's pale shoulder as it dipped down the center of his back. Crowley traced the blue laces cinching the corset together with his fingers, lingering in the center of his shoulder blades. He pressed his fingers lightly against the bones of the corset that ran directly where the angel's wings were tucked away. 

Aziraphale shivered from head to toe as his fingers moved down the embroidered panel to his hips. When he reached the frills at the bottom, Crowley rested his hand on the white coutil covering Aziraphale's waist. 

"Are they? I hadn't noticed," Aziraphale said. His voice was breathy. "They do make it rather difficult to undress alone." Aziraphale looked in the mirror in front of him and through it met Crowley's eyes, albeit hidden by dark glasses. 

"Mmm, quite the pickle you're in," Crowley said. They'd both agreed then, to play this game. Any of the hands in the ornate bedroom could've undressed Lady Fell with a single snap. Aziraphale held Crowley's eyes in the mirror and they both dared the other not to.

Crowley tugged on the neat ribbon tied in a bow at the bottom of the corset. He pulled the laces, loosening the corset and freeing Aziraphale's flesh.

"You ... fancy this form, then?" Aziraphale's eyes skittered sideways.

Crowley kissed his way down the side of Aziraphale's neck from his ear to his clavicle. " _Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is wing’d cupid painted blind_ ," he murmured.

"You really must stop quoting dear William to me, Crowley."

"Why?" Crowley smirked at him through the mirror and resumed kissing his neck. His fingers worked the top bow of the corset loose.

"Because you're just trying to get a rise out of me. I know you, serpent." He leaned back and tilted his head to give Crowley free access to his exposed shoulder. 

"And does it?" Crowley asked, grabbing Aziraphale's hips and pushing him forward into the table. He pressed himself flush against Aziraphale's rear, covered only in a thin white chemise and the partially undone corset. 

Aziraphale gasped, feeling Crowley's hardness against him. They locked eyes through the mirror, Crowley's yellow ones shining through his glasses. "Not in this form," Aziraphale said, arching his back. "I think you'll find something else entirely happens."

Crowley growled and bit down hard on Aziraphale's neck. He reached around and slid a hand under Aziraphale's chemise. 

Aziraphale's eyes closed as Crowley's fingers explored the folds between his legs. He braced himself against the low table and stifled a moan when Crowley found and rubbed circles around the nub of flesh that caused waves of pleasure to rush over him.

"Crowley," he said, then gasped as the sensations increased. He arched his back and felt Crowley's erection trapped between them. He rolled his hips forward and that only increased the friction from Crowley's insistent hand. "I can't- Crowley-"

"Angel," Crowley whispered, kissing his jawline. "Angel, angel, angel," he said, pleasuring him with his hand and rubbing against his back. Crowley slid his other hand under Aziraphale's loosened corset and caressed his breast. When he lightly teased the nipple, Aziraphale cried out. He stiffened and came with a low moan, legs shaking with the effort of keeping himself upright.

Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale's neck and they stood together in heated silence. Both of Crowley's arms wrapped tightly around Aziraphale, squeezing him from behind. Aziraphale breathed in deeply. He nuzzled Crowley's ear and his dark glasses fell to the table with a click. Crowley closed his eyes. Aziraphale watched him in the mirror. He saw his fiery hair pulling out of the black ribbon that kept it from falling around his neck. His head was bent as if in prayer, arms wrapped tight around that which he held sacred. Though Crowley couldn't see it, Aziraphale smiled at his reflection.

He turned, never leaving Crowley's arms, and squirmed awkwardly out of the corset. He returned to kissing Crowley as soon as he was free. Their mouths hardly parted as he hopped up on the table and Crowley settled between his legs. Both of them moaned when Crowley thrust his hips forward, rubbing his cock against Aziraphale's still-sensitive groin. Their eyes met.

"Angel-"

Aziraphale shook his head, silencing Crowley with a look. He reached between them and unclasped the buttons on Crowley's trousers. Crowley's golden eyes never left his as he guided him between his legs. Crowley's lips parted and he drew a sharp breath but held himself steady, letting Aziraphale draw him inside. They both adjusted to the awkwardness of the angle, and the table found itself growing a few inches higher. Aziraphale closed his eyes and gripped Crowley's arms, holding him steady. He slowly moved his hips, feeling full but aching for movement.

Crowley needed no further encouragement. He reached between their bodies to find the spot he'd pleasured earlier. "More?"

Aziraphale met his eyes and said, " _The sea, all water, yet receives rain_." He gasped as Crowley thrust deep inside him. "Ah, yes, more, Crowley!"

A wicked grin spread across Crowley's face and he increased his pace. "Now who's trying to get a rise out of whom?" The table holding Aziraphale up banged against the wall with every thrust. It didn't dare break due to the expectations of two increasingly desperate celestial beings. "Quoting dear Will back to me," he said, squeezing Aziraphale's backside hard with the hand that wasn't wedged between them. He growled, "Angel, _my will is thine_." 

Aziraphale gasped and Crowley thrust inside him again and again. The back of his head hit the mirror as Crowley pounded into him. He spread his legs wider to allow Crowley deeper still. He linked his ankles behind Crowley's back to keep him thrusting at an angle that sent shivers down his spine. Crowley paused to run a hand down the fabric of his white stockings, held in place by garters that would've dug into his skin had he the presence of mind to notice. Aziraphale held onto Crowley's shoulder to steady himself as the waves of pleasure grew stronger. When Crowley claimed his mouth in a bruising kiss, Aziraphale moaned into it and his body went stiff as he came a second time. Crowley thrust erratically a few more times, then spilled inside him with a gasp. Neither moved for a very long time.

Crowley kissed him softly as he pulled back. "I should go," he said, "should I go?"

Aziraphale nodded and he knew Crowley could see the pain in his eyes. "I don't want you to-" He swallowed and started over. "Your lot do not send rude notes, as I recall."

Crowley looked away as he buttoned his trousers. He searched for his glasses but couldn't find them.

Aziraphale didn't bother with his ruined state of dress. He snapped his fingers and found himself wearing a white and blue silk dressing gown. He smoothed the front, though there were no wrinkles. "You can explain the tempting, then?"

"I didn't-" Crowley brought his hand to the side of Aziraphale's face. "Angel that wasn't-"

"The boy, Crowley," he said gently, covering Crowley's hand with his own. "Jennings."

Crowley tried to hide the relieved look in his face but didn't succeed. "Yeah, no problem."

"Crowley-" He didn't know what he should say. Wasn't sure what he wanted to say. 

Crowley kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear, "G'night, angel." As he left, he snapped his fingers and a pair of dark glasses appeared on his face.

\--

"Lady Fell? Have you seen Mr. Crowley? I'd like to thank him." Lady Hawthorne joined Aziraphale at the railing overlooking the grounds. It was the same spot he'd shared with Crowley last night. This morning he could see out to the rolling hills beyond the manor house. Everything was fresh with life and color.

"I saw him earlier. He bade me apologize but he had to take his leave. Urgent business in London, I'm afraid."

She frowned. "I shall have to write him, then. His words made me realize ... well, many things, I suppose."

Aziraphale nodded.

"One gets so wrapped up in what one _should_ do," she said. Her voice was wistful but not exactly sad. She sighed. "It makes one blind to the possibility of happiness that might exist just outside the boundaries of what's proper. If only we have the strength of will to reach for it."

Aziraphale said nothing, but felt his cheeks grow warm at the memory of Crowley's arms around him. The taste of his kiss.

"Oh- there's Sarah." She pointed to two figures emerging into view. "My cousin and Miss Stewart seem to have gotten very close."

Aziraphale murmured in agreement, watching the two young ladies walking hand in hand. Their cheeks were also rosy, whether with the chill of the morning or something else.

"If only we have the strength of will to reach for it," Aziraphale repeated. A gentle smile bloomed on his face. He let it grow.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Reputed to be the oldest bar in Paris, L'Entracte is where I imagine Aziraphale and Crowley drinking after their crepe lunch date.  
> 2\. [ Hatchard's](https://www.hatchards.co.uk/history/) is mentioned in the Good Omens script book - it's London's oldest bookshop (older than Aziraphale's even) - I want to visit so bad.  
> 3\. [The Theatre Royal Haymarket](https://trh.co.uk/theatre-history/) was part of architect John Nash's redesign of several areas of London. The inside is exactly the type of theatre I imagine Aziraphale visiting in the Regency era - it's so, so pink.  
> 4\. The play they see is [The Rivals](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Rivals), a comedy about marriage and courtship which was not received well on opening (which wasn't actually at the Haymarket, so please forgive me). The director throws in some Henry IV, lamenting about never having money (I feel ya there, man). Aldridge was a famous actor of the time period.  
> 5\. Highbury Manor is an homage to Emma, the only Jane Austen I've read. (I know! What a sorry excuse for an English major.)  
> 6\. Inspiration for [Aziraphale's corset](https://www.etsy.com/listing/586839030/late-18th-corset-stay-marie-antoinette). I claim no great knowledge of period fashion and sources seem mixed on whether or not full corsets were en vogue - I found several sources that claimed Regency dress wasn't nearly as corseted or stuffy as earlier dress (or later Victorian). Aziraphale, always being behind fashion-wise, wouldn't keep up, though.  
> 7\. In the heat of the moment, both of them quote [Sonnet 135](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50650/sonnet-135-whoever-hath-her-wish-thou-hast-thy-will). In Shakespeare's day, the word "will" had several meanings, including sexual desire, the name Will, and the male and female sexual organs. So when Aziraphale mentions William the playwright, Crowley turns the name into a naughty pun, as Shakespeare does in the sonnet.


End file.
